Repair
by Skywolf24
Summary: Post-Winter Soldier. Steve Rogers is hardened by the guilt of failing to save his best friend from winter's breath; in the darkness of his apartment, he discovers a severely injured Bucky Barnes in need of his help to restore the wounds.


**Repair**

**All characters belong to Marvel Comics**

**I own nothing**

* * *

Darkness creeps over his face; Captain Steven Rogers stands between the division of amber and shadow. He is dressed in his dark Navy blue stealth uniform, leaning his rigid body against the edge of a desk—his shield strapped across his back, gleaming in dim lights—his firm gray-blue eyes reflect faint crescents in the depth of molten remorse.

He clenches his chiseled jaw tightly; setting his smooth lips into a line of anguish as he stares down—intently and angered at the scattered documents laid out in front of him—photos of Hydra's weapons in the forms of human flesh—empty hollow shells that had their souls ripped out of their bodies and memories once to ash once the smoke cleared away.

He recoils in pain, feeling the gauze around his rib cage constrict—reminding him of his last encounter in the helicarrier with the mortiferous Soviet assassin —the Winter Soldier.

Coldness sears deep into his bones creating a dull ache as turmoil ripples in his veins—there is a harrowing sense that overwhelms all his guarded emotions when he lifts the small black and white photograph of Bucky Barnes to the amber glow of lamplight.

Steve clamps his eyelids close; leather glove fingers curl into tight fists and clogs of breath drain from his fervid lungs—he feels his heart crumble into jaded pieces—falling into the unsteady fathom of his wounded soul.

"What did they do to you, Buck?" he whispers under his breath, his voice is ragged with sorrow and controlled rage. He feels the edges of his lips quiver as the memories pulled from the deep recesses of his mind flash images of Bucky falling off the side of the train and plunging into an icy grave—it plays through his mind like a reel footage of a the 1930s movie—finally burning out and creating just whiteness with no color—just a blank photograph that captured a shadow of a ghost.

"They had no right to do this to you, my friend."

"I wanted to save you, Buck." His soul releases the guilt etched on his heart—tears well in his eyes creating a hazy coat over his vision. "Just like you save me in Brooklyn's back alleys and helped me up when I tasted defeat."

He blinks his eyes, allowing the tears to fall steadily down the chiseled lines of his face. A faint grace of a smirk plays across his lips as he looks down at the photograph, "Even when I had no luck in the world to survive on my own… I always had you to keep me steady on my feet."

A sentimental brush of warmth enters his chest as he closes the folder and withdraws a step back from the desk. His eyes become alert as he stands on his guard—he acutely senses a familiar and dangerous presence in the shadows of the room.

"Whoever you are," he growls, irked by the deathly stillness in the room. His eyes become vats of melted embers of blue. "You picked the wrong Avenger to fight with tonight." He detaches his shield and slips his wrist in the back straps; his eyes glinting in the darkness. He instinctively peers deeper, showing no sign of weakness.

Steve approaches the apartment's door, sensing piercing, daunting eyes staring at him from the shadows—his heart becomes erratic against the confides of his chest and strides are methodical as he advanced closer to the closet. He keeps both of his eyes sharp and his body tenses—he raises his shield with one arm—protecting his chest and pulls back a cluster of jackets and shirts.

Nothing.

He pauses, feeling his heart thud against his ribs; his head narrows as he stares down at the splotches of blood on the floor—his eyes drift to the kitchen area and he freezes at that moment when he stares at the trail of anguish leading to the table. His gaze flickers around the room, he searches rapidly and then he notices movement near the fridge—a slender frame leaning against the fridge, decently muscled body garbed in carbon Nomex and Kevalr, tactical armor. It's the Winter Soldier, he reeks of exhaustion and he wounded—severely.

His injured arm cradled protectively against his rib cage. His head lowered, dark and messy chin length strands of chestnut draped over his ashen chiseled and youthful features. Steve listens to him heave out heavy pants of breath, and watching his square jaw clenches as he grimaces against the jolts of pain erupting through his tormented and quaking body. He lets out a few staggering breaths indicting that he was in sheer pain.

"Bucky?" Steve gasps, sounding exasperated. He feels his lungs explode as breath dissolves inside him. "Bucky, is it really you?" he asks in a gentle voice.

The Winter Soldier snaps his head up and glares fiercely up at Steve with his menacing ice-blue eyes shadowed by the darkness of the room. His smooth chiseled lines of his face bruised and stained with dried blood from their previous battle —his thick jaw swathed by a light stubble and full, beautiful lips paled —almost like the color of a winter rose.

Steve advances with caution, he lowers down his shield. He scans his eyes over the slumped postured, matted and greasy locks of hair hung limply against his neck, looking like it hadn't been washed in days. He rues silently that his friend probably needs a decent shower, but also knows that the Soldier will refuse to cooperate with that suggestion.

The watery blood congealing from his arm become the prime viewpoint for Steve's eyes, the shadows cast over the dark haired assassin's face expresses a lethal warning with a feral glare.

"Your body is bleeding out and you're in need of medical assistance, Buck," Steve said hoarsely, pulling open a drawer nearest to him and takes out a bag of cotton gauze. "Let me help you… We both know you need help."

"No, I don't." The Winter Soldier, snarls his lips into a fierce scowl, his teeth grit tightly and breath seethes from his lungs. He withdraws a step back—he crashes his body into a chair. He loses his balance and tumbles to the floor —a grunt rips out of his vocal cords as a line of blood drips from the corner of his mouth. "Leave me the Hell alone… Or I will not waste a second's hesitation to kill you." he bellows out a warning, his voice dark and gruff.

Steve unravels the gauze, "You were always so stubborn about your injuries —You never went to the doctors because you believed that it made you're tough ego weak." He lightly smirks, crouching down to the other man's level. His concerned eyes are trained on the smears of blood. "I'm not going to hurt you… But at least allow me to attend to your injuries." He speaks directly at the Winter Soldier with a stern and soothing voice. "Please, Buck?"

"I can handle everything by myself," he growls, his defiant steel-blue embers become guarded as he stares darkly at Steve. "Leave the gauze and leave me alone." he demands, coughing up another gob of blood—it stains over his soft lips as he whimpers, it's clearly involuntary and he lowers his eyes to his broken arm—shards of glass sticking out of sickly pale flesh.

"I guess I deserve this pain… After what I've done." he grins lightly, his tone is laced with a nonchalant brush of words-they're almost condemning. He glowers at Steve with his severe blue eyes shadowed by darkness and temperate guilt-ridden, dagger wielding slashes against his murky soul. His words are lost on Steve. "I caused you to feel pain… You should just let me suffer… That's my reward."

Steve shakes his head, refusing to allow his friend to bleed out. He rips a piece of gauze and reaches out a hand—slowly attempting to grasp the Soldier's shoulder. "I'm not losing you again, Bucky." he screws his eyelids shut, feeling the tears beginning to build against his lashes. "I'm going to save you and I am never going to let you go..."

"I might hurt you" The Winter Soldier gapes up at Steve with fear welling in his pale blue eyes."I might give you more pain." His voice is a scarce whispered laced with conviction. Steve finally grips his best friend's leather armored shoulder with a firm squeeze of his hand. He stares at a solitary tear drip over the Soldier's bruised cheek and run over his trembling lips. "Did you get wounded?" He didn't query in disbelief. It was an angered, remorseful tone that filled his lungs with a bitter copper tang. "I shot you and made you bleed."

"Buck," Steve gives him frail, trusting smile of reassurance. "I heal quickly." He moves his gloved hand down and carefully pulls out a shard of glass, tossing it to the floor. "And so do you."

"I can see you're a good man," The Winter Soldier counters; tears streak swiftly over the sides of his face. His eyes latch onto the drops of blood and then drift to his bionic metal arm. He clenches his fingers into a fist, fastening his lips into a firm line. "Good men never kill —they just protect those who fear death." He bites at his lip, looking confused, lost in his own—plagued mind. "Tell me, was this friend of yours, was he a good man before he went away?" he asks, pressing his lips tightly together, fighting against the pain shooting in his veins.

"He is still a good man in my eyes," Steve answers with a broad smile, meeting his friend's ghostly stare—he can see the glimmers of Bucky Barnes entrapped in the darkness of Hydra's control. He pulls out another piece of glass—the Soldier doesn't flinch, he just stares blankly into the shadows with glassy blue eyes.

"I know you don't remember me, but you will once I get a team of good people I trust to restore everything that Hydra stole from you, Buck." he continues softly; brushing away the dark strands out of the Soldier's glistening eyes. "I will help you find yourself again… I promise."

"Just tell me one thing," he asks in an unsteady voice, wrenching his eyes away from Steve. "Can you tell me your name." The corners of his mouth quirk up into a frustrated scowl, lifts his metal hand to the caress of light and he imagines flesh and bone forming over the metal. "If I can't remember you… At least I can call you by your name."

"Steve," the super soldier answers, gripping his friend's metal shoulder, covering up the red star. "You can call me Steve… It's an easy name to remember."

The Winter Soldier knits his eyebrows for a second, "Steve," he repeats, letting the name to roll off his tongue. "That's a good name." He narrows his head down, hair covers his face. He feels his tortured heart beating steadily. "It reminds me of someone I used to know..." His voice trails into a distant pitch, he blinks and instantly searches for the truth in Steve's honest blue eyes. "I will try to remember your name, Steve." He swallows, his throat feels sore.

Steve smiles, "Well, it's a good start." he whispers out with a sigh; wrapping the gauze over the deep gashes. He gently applies heat over the cold and marred arm, feeling the fractured bones against his steady palm. He never met to hurt Bucky. He never meant to cause him to feel more pain like that. He really didn't realize that until he got a look at the damage his own hands caused, his own strength. But he becomes determined to restore every wound both physically and mentally, and he was never going to allow Bucky to endure any more pain, never.

He sighs, ripping off another piece of gauze."We've got a lot of work to do, Buck—but right now I'm just going to focus on fixing you."

The Winter Soldier curves his lips into a grace of a slight smile. It's a glow of brilliance against the sullen look shrouding over his face and injuries-that makes Steve mirror the small smile. The Soldier and rolls up his leather sleeve. He removes his knife from a side pouch, and throws it across the floor. "I will not hurt you, Steve..." He stares deeply into Steve's teary eyes with his shimmering, warm blue eyes of James Barnes. "I promise."

He digs his metal fingers into Steve's shoulder, allowing him to feel the coldness of his past sins penetrate deep into flesh and bone. He stares up with glistening eyes, his arm coils over Steve's arm — it's an instinctive memory that unfolds in his mind—a gesture of trust.

"I remember that I use to do this to you..." He furrows his brow and pulls away, stares misty-eyed at Steve as recollection surfaces. "Steve..."

His lips tremble as tears blur his vision he touches Steve's face-the genuine voice of the soul beyond the layers of harden ice asks, "...Steve, is it really you?"

"Yeah, Buck," Steve replies softly, his own cheeks are wet. "It's me."

"They told me you had died during the war..." He says quietly, almost like a breath. The sweat on his brow gleams in the faint glow light. "A plane crashed in the ice— I tried to find you in the ice water, but they stopped me."

"It's a long story, Buck." Steve smiles brightly, wiping the tears off the sides of his face. "We're the boys from Brooklyn. I remember we always find a way to get back home."

Bucky lifts his back off the floor and collides his chest against Steve as he holds him like an anchor-keeping him from drowning in the dark and bloody waters of Hydra's control. He closes his eyes and feels all the constricting tension drain out of his slender frame, and his breathing slips into a content, steady rhythm.

Steve holds Bucky close, allowing the warmth of his muscles to soak into Bucky's icy skin, as he feels his heart begin to melt and knows that his best friend and brother is slowly returning—after seventy years of carrying the burden of failing to save Bucky Barnes —Steve finally closes his eyes and curves his lips into a watery smile.

"Thank you for saving me, Steve." Bucky slurs against the warmth of his shoulder. "And bringing me back home."


End file.
